


A Shot in the Dark

by Schattengestalt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF John Watson, Canon-Typical Violence, Disturbing Themes, FTM Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Serial Killers, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29859405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattengestalt/pseuds/Schattengestalt
Summary: When Sherlock wakes up in an unfamiliar flat, he's confused. When he remembers that he's just been chasing a serial killer, he fears the worst.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 52





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> I know, it's been ages since I posted my last Johnlock story and I'm truly sorry for it. I hope this story can make up for it. I'll update weekly (bi-weekly, if RL gets in the way). I'll add tags as I go along. I hope you enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)

### First Meeting

His head hurt. Sherlock stifled a groan and forced himself to lie perfectly still, although his head felt like it was going to explode.

"Mind over body. Don't focus on the pain but on where you are."

The Mycroft in his Mind Palace always had such great advice, Sherlock mused sarcastically. As if he wasn't aware, that he had to figure out where he was, before he even thought about opening his eyes. Firstly, he concentred on what his nose could tell him. There was no antiseptic smell in the air, therefore he wasn't in a hospital.

"You could have gathered that from the texture of the sheets. This aren't the ones they use in hospitals, you should know."

Sherlock wondered if there was any way to make his brother sound less superior and annoying, in his Mind Palace, but dismissed the idea a second later. For that, Mycroft would have to be less annoying in real life. World peace would be achieved, before his brother would even start of thinking to change his attitude towards him.

"Stay focused Sherlock." There he was again, telling Sherlock what he had to do and although he was right, Sherlock resented him a little for it.

So what could he deduce? He wasn't in a hospital, but he was lying in a bed, with cheap, but soft sheets. Combining that information with the dusty air in the room and the faint noises, from the street below, brought Sherlock to the conclusion, that he was in someone's flat. A flat, that was located on the third or fourth floor of a building, that was located in the outskirts of London. 

Sherlock frowned and had to bit his cheek, to keep from wincing, as the movement sent a jolt of pain through his head.

"Looks like someone hit you over the head. Retrace your steps and figure out why. Not that you haven't given enough people reasons to knock you out."

God, but Sherlock really needed to find a way to lock the door to Mycroft's wing, in his Mind Palace. The manifestation of his brother always became more annoying, when Sherlock didn't have the strength to ignore him.

"Focus!"

Fine, so there had been... a case. Yes, that sounded about right. Lestrade had come to beg him for help, because his stupid officers hadn't been able to connect the dots. There had been murders. For the last three months various men - of all ages and backgrounds - had been killed, with a single shot to the head. Naturally, the police hadn't found a connection between the victims. Until the murderer had changed his modus operandi and Sherlock had deduced, that he would be the perfect bait. That was, when he had decided to wander the streets, where the murderer was most likely to look for his next victim. And then...

Sherlock drew his eyebrows together and tried to force the memories to the forefront of his mind. His efforts only resulted in intensifying the pounding in his head and this time, he couldn't hold back a hiss of pain.

"Awake, I see."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at the voice and he jerked upright, only to regret the movement a second later. Stars exploded before his eyes and he barely managed to lean over the side of the bed, before his stomach emptied itself. He heaved, even as nothing came up anymore and tears started to form in his eyes, as a result of his splitting headache.

"Oh my..."

Sherlock didn't catch what the man was muttering, as he came to his side. He only registered strong hands, grabbing his shoulders and urging him into a half-sitting position, on the bed, before the man vanished again. It would probably help him, to focus on the steps of the man, to judge how big the flat was, but Sherlock was too busy with taking slow controlled breaths, to pay attention to anything else. Therefore, he startled again, when something was pressed against his lips. A pill of some sort. Sherlock kept his mouth shut. 

"It's Ibuprofen. You have a concussion and I can only imagine the pain you must be in. Just take it." The pill was pressed harder against his lips and Sherlock relented. Either the man was telling the truth and there might be a slight improvement, to how he was feeling or... Well, he was in no state to fight anyway.

"Well done," the stranger praised him and held a glass of water to his lips. Sherlock didn't need to be asked twice to drink. It certainly helped against the fool taste of vomit and stopped the burning in his throat. "Now, just take it easy for the next twenty minutes. You should feel a little better by then." Sherlock doubted that. Ibuprofen didn't seem strong enough, to even dim the pain in his head. Especially not the pills, that you got without a recipe and most people didn't have any others available at home.

The man was moving around the room. Sherlock heard the rustling of fabric and smelled cleaning agent, as his former accident was scrubbed away. Cold air hit him a second later, when the window was opened. It felt nice to breathe in fresh air, until he started to shiver, but before it became to unbearable the window was closed again. The next sounds indicated the closing of shutters and then... silence. Sherlock frowned and when the movement didn't send a jolt of pain through his head, he slowly blinked his eyes open. A relieved sigh escaped him, when he noticed that the room was dark, except for a dimmed lamp at the foot of his bed.

"Sorry, I should have thought of the light before." Sherlock turned his head in the direction of the voice. His host was sitting on a chair, next to his bed and looked at Sherlock with an apologetic smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Sherlock admitted to his own surprise. The throbbing in his head had been reduced to a manageable level and the gears in his mind started to turn again. "This wasn't just Ibuprofen you gave me."

"Ahem, no." The man shrugged, without a trace of apology on his face. "I added some tramadol drops to your water. It's usually not recommended when you have a head injury, but as I was there to watch you, the benefit was higher than the risk. You should be completely pain free in a short while."

"Doubtful." Sherlock pursed his lips, when deductions about his host started to come in. He was shorter than him, although he couldn't say by how much, as long as they were both sitting down. His possession of prescribed pain killers suggested, that he had been injured himself and probably undergone surgery, not so long ago. He was older than Sherlock, but not by much, although the hideous jumper he wore suggested otherwise. All in all he appeared harmless, but...

"I assure you that although it might not feel like it, the pain will go away. Trust me, I am..."

"I did cocaine for years."

"Oh fuck and I gave you an opioid." His host ran an agitated hand through his hair. "You didn't look like an addict and I... Sorry, that came out wrong. I just mean..."

"It's fine." Sherlock withstood the temptation to role his eyes, at the unnecessary apology. "You don't look like a serial rapist and killer either and yet here we are."

"What the fuck?"

Sherlock winced at the loud exclamation, but continued his explanations. "You have killed twelve men in total, four of which you raped before blowing their heads off. I just haven't figured out why you did that. Is it for sexual satisfaction? Wasn't killing them enough anymore? Is that why you switched from targeting totally average men to young and handsome ones? I would really like to know, before..." Sherlock stopped midsentence. He couldn't finish his own thoughts. He had always told everyone that his body was only transport for him, but it wasn't true. At least not when it came to this.

"Say it. Don't be afraid of a word."

Sherlock sneered inwardly. He wasn't afraid of a word, but he felt fear, indeed. Fear of... being raped and then killed. Sherlock would really prefer it the other way around. Not that he liked the idea of having his brains blown out, but he would prefer not to experience...

Sherlock took a shaking, but it didn't do anything to calm him down. If anything, his panic only rose as he felt his chest constrict painfully, when he inhaled. Cold sweat was trickling down his back and his hands started to shake, where they lay useless in his lap. He couldn't do anything to stop this man. There was nothing in his reach, that he could use to defend himself and even if he had a knife at hand, Sherlock doubted. that it would be of any use. Not when he was still in pain and slightly disoriented. 

He flinched when the man reached a hand towards him, but it was only to gently touch his forehead. "You don't appear to have a fever, but I am worried about your illusions. I didn't think, that your concussion was that bad, but..."

"They aren't illusions," Sherlock growled and forgot the situation he was in for a second and glared at his host. He hated when people tried to fool him. "I know that you are the serial killer."

The man raised an eyebrow at him. "How so?"

So, he wanted to play dumb? Or did he just want to hear, how Sherlock had figured it out? How cliché, but maybe this would buy Sherlock enough time, to come up with a plan for escape... or Mycroft would locate his phone and safe him. At least owning his brother a favour, would be better than the alternative.

"You are ex-military, invalided home from Afghanistan or Iran. You had trouble adjusting to civilian life and you looked for something to pass the time. You were unable to find a job, as a doctor, so you decided that you would focus on what else you were good at: Shooting people."

"Brilliant!"

Sherlock blinked. That wasn't the reaction he usually got, when deducing people. Most people just told him to piss off, if they didn't become violent right away. To get praised by a rapist and murderer was... weird.

"So did I get everything right?"

The man furrowed his brow. "You were spot on about my past in the army, my injury and that I am a doctor, but... I am not killing people. Oh and," he added with a chuckle, "I was in Afghanistan. Amazing really, Mr. Holmes."

"How...?" Sherlock stared at the man in shock, at the use of his name. He didn't think, that he was that recognizable. There was no picture on his blog and he always made sure to keep a low profile, while working on cases, so how on earth...

"I found your business cards, when I went through the pockets of your coat. Consulting Detective sounded interesting. Therefore I checked out your blog and while I doubted, that you could really deduce, like you claimed, I am completely convinced now." The man cocked his head to the side, with a slight grin. "I think we can blame your insistence, that I am criminal, on your concussion."

"Why do you keep insisting on being innocent?" Sherlock sat up straighter in bed and narrowed his eyes at the man. "Do you want me to imagine myself safe, to highlight the experience for yourself? You might still get disappointed. I am not the kind of man, you are looking for."

Light blue eyes only blinked at him in confusion. "Let's just imagine for one second, that I’m the killer - which I’m not - then why shouldn't you be my type? You said yourself that his victims are young and handsome. You’re certainly both."

Sherlock forced the rising heat, in his cheeks, back down. He wouldn't blush, at the compliments of a criminal. "I’m also transgender."

"Okay." A puzzled frown appeared on the man's face, but was then replaced by a smile. "That's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock gulped, as the man got up from his chair and reached for something in the drawer of the nightstand. He had hoped, that his host would be discouraged by his gender identity, but obviously he didn't care, if he was looking for a condom right now. He had always used condoms with the victims.

"Haven't you always hoped for someone, who wouldn't care about what's in your pants, brother dear?"

Sherlock didn't know if he should laugh or scream, at the remark from the Mycroft, in his Mind Palace. Numerous rejections by men, because he didn't have a cock, but a serial rapist didn't care. This was...

"Your phone." Sherlock stared at the object in the man's hand, but didn't try to take it from him. Certainly, this was a trick, although Sherlock wasn't sure what the man would gain from it.

"Just take it." The phone landed on the blankets, as the man sighed in frustration. "I really don't know, how else to convince you, that I am not going to rape and kill you... or that I have committed any such crimes, in the past." 

Slowly Sherlock closed his hand around the phone and turned it on. The screen came to life. There were numerous messages and calls from Lestrade.

"Someone seems worried about you. Your lover?" Sherlock blinked up in confusion, even as he sent off a text to the DI, to locate his phone and collect him. "Who?"

"Lestrade."

Sherlock snorted. "No, he is the Detective Inspector, I mostly work with." He looked at the phone again, to make sure that Lestrade had got his message, before he met the stranger's blue eyes. "I’m sorry."

Sherlock couldn't say where he had gone wrong, with his deductions, but it didn't make sense for this man to be the criminal, he was looking for. There was no reason, why he should have given him his phone, otherwise. Maybe his bad judgement could really be blamed on his concussion.

"It's fine." Tension ebbed from the shoulders of the man, as he sat back down in his chair. "I’m John Watson by the way."

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor Watson," Sherlock took the offered hand and then cursed himself for his stupid words. After he had accused John of some terrible crimes, vomited on his floor and came out to him as transgender, he couldn't think of anything better to say?! Sherlock was appalled at himself. That was, until he heard his host's chuckle and noticed the twinkle in his eyes. "Please call me John, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." They stared at each other for a long moment and then laughter bubbled up in John's throat. "God, this conversation is the craziest thing, I’ve ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock couldn't help, but point out and they both dissolved into laughter. It only lasted, until Sherlock winced in pain though and grabbed his head. Laughing while concussed apparently wasn't a good idea.

"You should really get that checked at a hospital. Any idea, why that guy hit you unconscious?"

"Guy? What guy... Oh!" Sherlock only didn't hit the floor, as he tried to scramble out of the bed, because John caught him and pushed him back onto the covers. "You are not running off like that. Not that you could anyway, but I won't let you try."

"But John," Sherlock glared at the hideous jumper, in front of him, "Don't you understand? That man was the killer. He took my bait and..."

"What?" Sherlock flinched at the disbelieving and angry voice. "You were trying to bait a rapist, to choose you as his next victim?!"

"I..." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but didn't get far, when John got into his face. "I thought you were smart, but you’re a fucking idiot!"

"I had him," Sherlock snarled back and bit down on his tongue, when his head gave a painful throb.

"You didn't have him," John tipped a finger against his chest, "But he had you. If I hadn't been around, to drive him off, you would be dead by now... or maybe he would like you so much, that he would keep you around, to fuck a little longer."

Sherlock blanched. He hadn't thought of that. Why hadn't he thought of that? And why did it come as a surprise, now, when he had - falsely - believed himself in the hands of the murderer, for some time now?

"Belated shock," the bored voice of his brother supplied, even as a shiver ran through Sherlock's body. 

"God, I’m sorry." John's worried face was in front of him and then a woollen blanket was thrown over his shoulders, even as he was drawn against a warm body. "I shouldn't have said that. Not when you are in such a state."

Sherlock wanted to protest and to tell John, that he didn't need pampering, but what left his mouth instead was: "Will you help me catch the killer?"


	2. First Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The promised update. Enjoy! :)

### First Case

"How the fuck did you convince me, that this was a good idea?" The tiny voice of John complained, through his earpiece and Sherlock grinned. "I am just very persuasive." He leaned back, against the tree, he had decided was a good spot for tonight's work and pretended, that he was scrolling through his phone. For a casual observer, he would look like a bored young man, who wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. The perfect target for the killer.

"Ah now I remember," John's voice crackled, in Sherlock's ear, "I was worried, that you would get yourself killed, with this idiotic stunt."

Sherlock turned his head to speak into the speaker, while making it look like he was just adjusting his earplugs. "It's not idiotic. It's going to work... just like last time."

A snort sounded over the earpiece. "You mean, it's going to end with you in my bed? Sounds great to me. Can we just skip this whole stalking a killer thing then and move directly to the good part?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but closed it with a snap, when no words were forthcoming. Despite what most people believed, Sherlock knew when someone flirted with him. He only choose to ignore the annoying innuendos, more often than not and if he didn't... it was for a case. Not that Sherlock didn't have experience, but he wasn't willing to engage in this mindless mating dance of the general public, anymore. He had given up on it years ago. Why should he bother, when most people lost their interest in him, as soon as they learned that he was transgender. And the few who weren't discouraged by it, soon realised, that they couldn't handle him. Obviously, rude behaviour, body parts in the fridge, stinking experiments and a fascination for crime scenes, were a deal breaker. For a second, he wondered if John would mind and then scolded himself an idiot. John was only making these remarks, because he was bored out of his mind, where he was crunched down in the bushes.

"But he is hunting a serial killer with you," Mycroft pointed out the obvious and Sherlock scoffed at that. John was only here today, because he believed that Sherlock couldn't look after himself. He had even said so himself and not just right now.

"Let me get this straight," John carefully pronounced, after Sherlock's proposal, "You want me to help you catch a killer. The same killer, that already managed to outplay you once, is that right?"

Sherlock scowled down at the sheets. "I made a small miscalculation, that's all."

"A small miscalculation?" John's voice sounded strangely restrained and when Sherlock glanced up, he noted the barely held back fury, with curiosity. Why would John be angry at him? It wasn't like Sherlock had put John's life in danger... or maybe that was what had the doctor in a strop. He didn't trust Sherlock, to keep him safe and believed that he had just been asked to risk his life. "Don't worry, you won't be in any real danger. The killer won't target you and..."

"Yes, I know, he only targets young and handsome men." There was a bitter note in John's voice and Sherlock found himself stumbling over his own words a second later. He probably should get his head checked, at a hospital. "I didn't mean... you are quite... easy on the eye. I just mean... you won't be the bait, but I..."

"Oh no! Certainly not!" John's voice was made of steel and his eyes were alight with anger. He got up from the bed and stepped in front of Sherlock, to peer down at him. "You," John stabbed a finger against Sherlock's chest, "already got injured, while trying to apprehend this man. I won't let you put your life in danger, again. Let the police handle this."

"The police," Sherlock sneered and slapped John's finger away, "are a bunch of imbeciles. They will never catch this guy."

"Maybe, if you would just tell them to place a young police officer, as a bait, they would be more successful." John crossed his arms, in front of his chest and raised a challenging eyebrow at him.

Sherlock drew the blanket closer around his body, as he glared up at John. He had thought the doctor was different, but he was just as thick, as the rest of them. "I already told them, they didn't listen. Therefore, I told them I would do it myself and went through with it. Obviously, I should have..."

"Wait a sec!" Sherlock watched in fascination, as John grew absolutely still and only his eyes revealed, that he was ready to murder someone. Maybe the good doctor wasn't quite so boring, after all. "You told them, you would be a bait and they didn't give you even one officer, to look after you?!"

"I don't need looking after." Sherlock grimaced at the sour taste, the words left in his mouth. His parents had always wanted Mycroft to look after their precious little girl and later, they had told Sherlock's first boyfriend, to take care of him. Never mind, that Sherlock had already studied various material arts, at that point or that he had told them, that he wasn't their girl. He wished, he could go back in time and stop himself from telling John, that he was transgender. Maybe then, the army doctor would stop, with this stupid notion, that Sherlock needed a watchdog.

"That's bullshit!" John raked his hands through his hair and blew air out of his nose, before he continued more calmly. "No matter what you do, you always need someone to have your back. You don't just walk into a house, where you suspect the militia is waiting for you, alone. You work with your comrades. You trust them to keep you safe and they trust you, to do the same damn thing."

"I don't," Sherlock blurted out, before he could stop himself, "I always work on my own. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

"That's not true. Friends protect people." Sherlock snorted at that, but didn't reply. He couldn't remember the last time, when he had considered someone a friend. Lestrade was fine, but the DI only saw Sherlock as a useful nuisance, as far as he could tell. Then there was Mrs. Hudson and while Sherlock knew that she liked him, it was more of a mother-son relationship than anything else. Molly was always nice to him, but only because she had a crush on him and had put him on a pedestal. If she ever took off her rose-coloured glasses, she wouldn't even look at Sherlock anymore. There was no one else to even consider as a friend. The few people, he had managed to win during his childhood, had turned their backs in disgust, when he had announced that he was a man. So no, he didn't have any friends.

Sherlock didn't mention any of that though. The last thing, he needed, was John's pity. Still, some of his thoughts must have shown on his face, since blue eyes softened and the doctor crouched down in front of him. Sherlock expected a long-wound pitying speech, but John surprised him again. "If I don't come, you will just go on your own, right?"

Sherlock nodded. Of course, what a stupid question, as if he would wait for the police to catch the killer. There would be no young men left, in the whole of London, until they got him.

"I will come with you and have your back." A bright grin stretched Sherlock's lips at that. He didn't know, why John had changed his mind, but he sure as hell wasn't going to complain about it. Impulsively he covered the hand on his knee with his own. "You will have to bring your gun."

A gasp fell from John's lips at that, but he didn't try to free his hand or move away from Sherlock. "How did you...?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Shot in the dark, really. You are an ex-soldier and you look like the type, to take your serving revolver with you."

John laughed at that and Sherlock noted that he liked that sound. It would be nice to hear it more often. But first things first. "Lestrade will fetch me soon, so we should exchange numbers, in order to discuss, when we will meet up tomorrow. I would suggest..."

"Not tomorrow." John got to his feet and crossed his arms in front of his chest, as he frowned down at Sherlock. It occurred to him, that this was probably the look John reserved for his most stubborn patients. At least, it looked well-practiced. "You had your head smashed in, just a few hours ago and..."

"Don't be so dramatic. If it had been smashed in, I wouldn't..."

"Don't argue with me, Sherlock!" Yes, this was definitely John's annoyed doctor voice. "You won't go and catch any serial killers, until Friday."

"But today is Monday," Sherlock whined and then scolded himself for it. "I don't need your permission to do anything. If you won't come with me tomorrow, then I will just go by myself."

"No, you won't." John had the nerves to smirk down at him. "If you don't stay at home and rest, I will make sure, that you get admitted to St. Bart's."

"I will just release myself."

"No, you won't. Not if I talk to the right people and believe me, I still know enough guys there, that would be all too happy, to do me a little favour." John smirked down at him, in triumph.

"You are bluffing." Sherlock glowered up at him.

John raised an eyebrow at that. "Am I?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, to point out all the signs, that John was in fact trying to play him, but realised he couldn't find any. There was no way of telling, if John was lying or telling the truth. Fascinating.

"Fine," Sherlock huffed, to distract John from his failed attempt of deducing him. "We will catch the killer on Friday, then."

The big grin on the doctor's face was almost too bright for him, as John pressed his phone in Sherlock's hand, to enter his number. "It's a date!"

Sherlock was spared the humiliation of asking John, if he really meant it, when Lestrade knocked on the door. Of course, it wouldn't be a date. John was merely joking around. Nevertheless, Sherlock looked forward to Friday. It would be nice, to pretend that he had a friend, with him.

And it was nice, Sherlock mused, if you discounted the cold and the long-time of waiting. They had already been here for a couple of hours and something interesting had yet to happen.

"Do you really think, that our man will come here, tonight?" John sounded as impatient as Sherlock felt. "Why would he even go to this park? There is no one here. Not even some old lady walking her dog."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John certainly was more interesting than the average person, but he could be just as dumb as them. "That's exactly why he will check out this park. It's in his hunting ground and although he knows, that it's not likely to find a fitting victim here, he is also aware that if he gets lucky, he won't have to fear that he will get caught."

"Right." John sounded sceptical and Sherlock sighed. "You don't have to stay, John. I understand, if you would rather go somewhere warm and..."

"Don't be stupid. I won't leave you alone." The words sent warmth rushing through Sherlock's body. He was suddenly glad, that he had his back to John or the doctor might have noticed his blush. How juvenile to blush at such a simple statement. It wasn't like John had confessed his undying love and attraction to him. Not that this would ever happen... and where did that thought even come from?

Sherlock frowned and slipped into his Mind Palace, to search for the origin of such a pedestrian musing. He had barely taken a few steps towards the room, where he stored all new things, until he had the time to decide, if he wanted to keep them, when he noticed it. There was a new staircase leading upstairs. Worried - nothing should be built without his knowledge - but intrigued Sherlock followed the stairs upstairs. They stopped in front of a plain door and he pushed it open carefully. It was a simple square room. The walls were the colour of sand and the curtains, of the only window, were of a light blue. There were shelves against the wall and a bed in front of the window and Sherlock frowned, as he stepped farther into the room. The shelves were filled with all kind of things, in no particular order. There were books about cooking and weaponry, side by side with books about the newest surgery techniques. Empty bottles were scattered around the framed picture, of what looked like a happy family. Sherlock couldn't make out anyone in it, but he noticed the crack that seemed to split the whole picture. Interesting.

Sherlock let his eyes wander farther through the room. He noted a khaki uniform and scrubs, next to woollen jumpers, under which a gun lay hidden. A smile flickered over Sherlock's face. How fitting of his mind to decorate John's room like this. Never mind, that Sherlock still didn't know, when or why it had been added to his Mind Palace. His feet carried him to the bed. A teddy sat on top of the perfectly made sheets. It was wearing a jumper and scowling warningly. A sense of danger radiated from it, but when Sherlock touched it, he only felt warm and protected. Maybe this was where this stupid thought had come from. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the teddy, even as he held him close to his chest. He should probably think of a way to delete it and the feelings it symbolized, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to do it. Not yet anyway. Maybe later, when...

"Sherlock! Look out!" The shout echoed through Sherlock's Mind Palace, followed by a shot, that almost deafened him, as it tore him back to reality.

He blinked rapidly. His mind was working as fast as possible, to figure out what had just happened, while he had been wandering through his Mind Palace. Absolutely stupid, Sherlock scolded himself, as he looked at the man lying on the ground, only a few feet away from him. Shot to the neck, still alive, but approximately dead in the next thirty seconds. 

John kneeled down next to the dying man - Sherlock couldn't even say when he had moved - and affirmed Sherlock's own diagnoses as he shook his head. There was nothing to be done, to save the man.

"Why did you shoot him?" Sherlock clenched his hands at his side, as he glared at John, as the doctor stepped up next to him.

"Because it looked like he was going to shoot you." John's eyes narrowed at him. "What the fuck were you even doing? You didn't react to anything I said. You didn't give me your assessment of the situation or any other fucking clue, as to how to proceed. So don't take it out on me, that I made a decision, based on the information I had."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged as his anger left him, in a huff of warm air. John was right. There was no reason for him to complain. They had agreed that the doctor would watch his back and he had done, what he had deemed necessary, to keep Sherlock safe. If he wanted to be angry at someone, he should better take it out on himself. 

"Sorry," the apology came easier over his lips than expected, "I got lost in my Mind Palace."

One of John's eyebrows rose at that, but the look in his eyes softened at the same time. "Your Mind Palace?!"

"It's a memory technique to sort and store important information," Sherlock explained and then sighed when his eyes flickered to the still body in the grass. "I could have interrogated him, if I had paid more attention."

"Just imagine, that I would still have shot him, even if you had told me otherwise, if that makes you feel better." Sherlock opened his mouth to reply and closed it again, with a snap, because he could only stare at John in wonder. He had just shot a man, that he had presumed to be a danger to Sherlock and now he was... joking about it. Anyone else would likely be put off by such a behaviour, but Sherlock only found himself fascinated by it.

"Ahem," John coughed slightly and Sherlock averted his eyes, as he noticed that he was still staring. "You should probably confirm, that this man was actually the killer, we were after or I might be in a lot of trouble. Not that I still won't be. I am not sure how the police will react, to what happened here tonight."

Sherlock frowned as he repeated the words in his mind, to figure out why they appeared to hold some special meaning, even as he started to examine the body. It was easy to deduce that the man was in fact the killer, they had been looking for, although Sherlock knew that the signs weren't obvious to anyone else. The police would have never believed that the man was the serial killer - not enough evidence - nor that John had needed to kill him. The way the man had closed his hand around his gun, in the pocket of his jacket, was enough for Sherlock to go on, but not for the idiots from Scotland Yard. He only couldn't figure out, why the killer had been about to deviate from his usual pattern. Usually, he only shot his victims after he had been through with them. So why... had he recognized Sherlock and decided it would be better to get rid of him or had he only wanted to threaten him with the gun, to make him comply?

"Do I have to feel guilty for shooting an innocent man or will it feel justified, to me while I serve my time in prison?" Sherlock startled, as he turned to John, who only looked slightly nervous, as he peered over his shoulder, at the man he had killed.

"He was the killer," Sherlock announced and clambered, as elegantly as possible, back to his feet. "And of course, you won't go to prison."

John snorted in amusement, at that. "I’m not sure, that you can decide that. Even if I won't be convicted, the police will certainly take me into custody. I just killed a man after all."

"It wasn't a very nice man," Sherlock returned, before he could help himself. To his astonishment John giggled at the remark and Sherlock escaped a similar sound, in response.

"We shouldn't giggle," John reminded them, with a grin in his voice, "It's a crime scene."

"It's nota, s long as the police isn't here and they won't come." Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and grimaced even as he started to type. "Mycroft will take care of it."

"Mycroft?" 

Sherlock nodded as he hit sent. "My big brother. He will make sure, that there won't be any evidence left." Sherlock didn't mention, that he would probably have to solve three boring cases, of national importance, as payment. Considering, that there was an actual body here this time ,Sherlock might even have to take their parents to a musical in London. One evening, of listening to his mother, telling him what a beautiful woman he could have been, sounded horrible. But Sherlock was willing to endure it, if it meant that John would walk free.

"You never told him about this option, Sherlock," Mycroft pointed out to him. "He didn't know that you have such connections and yet he still shot a man for you. Your life is more important to him than his own freedom. What can we deduce from that, brother mine?"

Sherlock's lips parted in surprised wonder, at the revelation from the most annoying part of his Mind Palace. It was true. John had acted, without thinking of the consequences for himself. No one had ever done anything like this for Sherlock. What did it mean?

Sherlock couldn't even start to unravel this mystery now. Not when John was looking at him, with a suspicious look on his face. "Is your brother some sort of criminal mastermind or does he work for the Mafia?"

"Both." Sherlock smirked, even as he agreed to solving six cases, of his brother's choosing, before he pocketed his phone once more. "He will tell you that he holds a minor position in the British Government, but he actually is the British Government."

"You’re kidding." Sherlock shook his head at John's disbelieving tone and gestured for them to move towards the exit of the park. "Not at all. He is probably going to kidnap you, in the next week, if you stay around me."

"A little dramatic for the usual big brother speech, isn't it?" John joked and brushed their shoulders together, instead of running away at Sherlock's warning, like any sane man would have done. Sherlock wondered how many more things he would find about John Watson, to marvel at. 

"I am sure he’ll ask you to spy on me for him,” Sherlock admitted lightly.

"Not bloody likely to happen." John sounded offended, at the mere idea of spying on him.

Sherlock frowned at that. "You could use the money."

"Yes," John shrugged and their hands bumped together, as they continued to walk down the street. "But before I become desperate enough, to take money for ratting out my friends, I will shoot myself."

Sherlock stopped abruptly. "Friends?"

John fidgeted with his hands and turned towards him, but his gaze was determined and open, when he met Sherlock's eyes. "I don't shoot a man for just anyone."

"I..." Sherlock started, only to be interrupted by the annoying voice of his brother in his Mind Palace. "The good Doctor considers you his friend, brother mine. God knows why, but he appears to have come to like you. Don't ruin it with a stupid comment."

"I am hungry," Sherlock heard himself finish his former sentence. as he shifted nervously from one foot to the other. "Do you fancy Chinese. I know a good restaurant just a few streets away."

There was confusion mirrored in John's eyes for a second, before he proved that he was slightly smarter than average, since he appeared to get the hidden meaning, in Sherlock's words. "Sure, sounds great. Lead the way."


End file.
